On one of the warm, bright days that we sometimes have in the month of February, all the brighter from their contrast to the passing winter, William Halliburton was walking home to tea from the manufactory, and overtook Henry Ashley limping along.

Henry was below the middle height, and slight in form, with the same beautiful face that had marked his boyhood, delicately refined in feature, brilliant in colour; the same upright lines of pain knit in the smooth white brow.

"Just the man I wanted," said he, linking his arm within William's. "You are a good help up a hill, and I am hot and tired."

"Wrapped up in that coat, with its fur lining, I should think you are! I have doffed my elegant cloak, you see, to-day."

"Is it off to the British Museum?"

William laughed. "I have not had time to pack it up."

"I am glad I met you. You must come home to tea with me. Well? Why are you hesitating? You have no engagement?"

"Nothing more than usual. My studies——"

"You are study mad!" interrupted Henry Ashley. "What do you want to be? A Socrates? An Admirable Crichton?"

"Nothing so formidable. I want to be useful."

"And you make yourself accomplished, as a preliminary step to it. Mary took up the fencing-sticks for you yesterday. Herbert Dare was at our house—some freak is taking him to be a pretty constant visitor just now—and the talk turned upon Frank. You know," broke off Henry in his quaint way, "I never use long words when short ones will do: you learned ones would say 'conversation.' Mr. Keating had said to my father that Frank Halliburton was a brilliant scholar, and I retailed it to Herbert. I knew it would put him up, and there's nothing I like half so much as to rile the Dares. Herbert sneered. 'And he owes it partly to William,' I went on, 'for if Frank's a brilliant scholar, William's a brillianter!' 'William Halliburton a brilliant scholar!' stormed scornful Herbert. 'Has he learnt to be one at the manufactory? So long as he knows how gloves are made, that's enough for him. What does he want with the requirements of gentlemen?' Up looked Miss Mary; her colour rising, her eyes flashing. She was at her drawing: at which, by the way, she makes no progress; nothing to be compared with Anna Lynn. 'William Halliburton has forgotten more than you ever learnt, Herbert Dare,' cried she; 'and there's more of the true gentleman in his little finger than there is in your whole body.' 'There's for you, Herbert Dare,' whistled I; 'but it's true, lad, like it or not as you may!' Herbert was riled."

Henry turned his head as he concluded, and looked up at William. A gleam like a sunbeam had flashed into William's eyes; a colour to his cheeks.

"Well?" cried Henry sharply, for William did not speak. "Have you nothing to say?"

"It was generous of Miss Ashley."

"I don't mean that. Oh dear!" sighed Henry, who appeared to be in one of his fitful moods; "who is to know whether things will turn out crooked or straight in this world of ours? What objection have you to coming home with me for the evening? That's what I mean."

"None. I can give up my books for a night, bookworm as you think me. But they will expect me at East's."

"Happy the man that expecteth nothing!" responded Henry. "Disappoint them."

"As for disappointing them, I shouldn't so much mind, but I can't abide to disappoint myself," returned William, quoting from Goldsmith's good old play, of which both he and Henry were fond.

"You don't mean to say it would be a disappointment to you, not giving the lesson, or whatever it is, to those working chaps!" uttered Henry Ashley.

"Not as you would count disappointment. When I do not get round for an hour, it seems as a night lost. I know the men like to see me; and I am always fearing that we are not sure of them."

"You speak as though your whole soul were in the business," returned Henry Ashley.

"I think my heart is in it."

Henry looked at him wistfully, and his tone grew serious. "William, I would give all I am worth, present, and to come, to change places with you."

"To change places with me!" echoed William, in surprise.

"Yes: for you have an object in life. You may have many. To be useful in your generation is one of them."

"And so may you have objects in life."

"With this encumbrance!" He stamped his lame leg, and a look of keen vexation settled itself in his face. "You can go forth into the world with your strong limbs, your unbroken health; you can work, or you can play; you can be active, or you can be still, at will. But what am I? A poor, weak creature; infirm of temper, tortured by pain, condemned half my days to the monotony of a sick-room. Compare my lot with yours!"

"There are those who would choose your lot in preference to mine, were the option given them," returned William. "I must work. It is a duty laid upon me. You can play."

"Thank you! How?"

"I am not speaking literally. Every good and pleasing thing that money can purchase is at your command. You have only to enjoy them, so far as you may. One, suffering as you do, bears not upon him the responsibility to use his time, that a healthy man does. Lots, in this world, Henry, are, as I believe, pretty equally balanced. Many would envy you your life of calm repose."

"It is not calm," was the abrupt rejoinder. "It is disturbed by pain, and aggravated by temper; and—and—tormented by uncertainty."

"At any rate, you can subdue the one."

"Which, pray?"

"The temper. Henry"—dropping his voice—"a victory over your own temper may be one of the few obligations laid upon you."

"I wish I could live for an object," grumbled Henry.

"Come round with me to East's, sometimes."

"I—daresay!" retorted Henry, when he could recover from his amazement. "Thank you again, Mr. Halliburton."

William laughed. But he soon resumed his seriousness. "I can understand that for you, the favoured son of Mr. Ashley, reared in refinement and exclusiveness——"

"Enshrined in pride—the failing that Helstonleigh is pleased to call my besetting sin; sheltered under care and coddling so great that the very winds of heaven are not suffered to visit my face too roughly!" was the impetuous interruption of Henry Ashley. "Come! bring it all out. Don't, from motives of delicacy, keep in any of my faults, virtues, or advantages!"

"I can understand, I say, why you are unwilling to break through the reserve of your home habits," William calmly continued. "But, if you did so, you might no longer have to complain of the want of an object in life."

At this moment they came in view of William's house. Mrs. Halliburton happened to be at one of the windows. William nodded his greeting, and Henry raised his hat. Presently Henry began again.

"Pray, do you join the town in its gratuitous opinion that Henry Ashley, of all in it, is the proudest amid the proud?"

"I do not find you proud," said William.

"You! As far as you and I are concerned, I think the boot might be on the other leg. You might set up for being proud over me."

William could not help laughing. "Putting joking aside, my opinion is, Henry, that your shyness and sensitiveness are in fault; not your pride. It is your reserved manner alone which has caused Helstonleigh to take up the impression that you are unduly proud."

"Right, old fellow!" returned Henry in emphatic tones. "If you knew how far I and pride stand apart—but let it pass."

Arrived at the entrance to Mr. Ashley's, William threw open the gate for Henry, retreating himself. "I must go home first, Henry. I won't be a quarter of an hour."

Henry looked cross. "Why on earth, then, did you not go in as we passed? What was the use of your coming up here to go back again?"

"I thought my arm was helping you."

"So it was. But—there! don't be an hour."

As William walked rapidly back, he met Mrs. Ashley's carriage. She and Mary were in it. Mrs. Ashley nodded as he raised his hat, and Mary glanced at him with a smile and a heightened colour. She had grown up to excessive beauty.

A few moments, and William met beauty of another style—Anna Lynn. Her cheeks were the flushed, dimpled cheeks of her childhood; the same sky-blue eyes gleaming from between their long dark lashes; the same profusion of silky, brown hair; the same gentle, sweetly modest manners. William stopped to shake hands with her.

"Out alone, Anna?"

"I am on my way to take tea with Mary Ashley."

"Are you? We shall meet there, then."

"That will be pleasant. Fare thee well for the present, William."

She continued her way. William ran in home, and to his chamber. Dressing himself hastily, he went to the room where his mother sat, and stood before her.

"Does my coat fit me, mother?"

"Why, where are you going?" she asked.

"To Mrs. Ashley's. I have put on my new coat. Does it do? It seems all right"—throwing up his arms.

"Yes, it fits you exactly. I think you are growing a dandy. Go along. I must not look at you too long."

"Why not?" he asked in surprise.

"In case I grow proud of my eldest son. And I would rather be proud of his goodness than of his looks."

William laughingly gave his mother a farewell kiss. "Tell Gar I am sorry he will not have me at his elbow this evening, to find fault with his Greek. Good-bye, mother dear."

In truth, there was something remarkably noble in William Halliburton's appearance. As he entered Mrs. Ashley's drawing-room, the fact seemed to strike upon Henry with unusual force, who greeted him from his distant sofa.

"So that's what you went back for!—to turn yourself into a buck!" he called out as William approached him. "As if you were not well enough before! Did you dress for me, pray?"

"For you!" laughed William. "That's good!"

"In saying 'me,' I include the family," returned Henry quaintly. "There's no one else to dress for."

"Yes, there is. There's Anna Lynn."

Now, in good truth, William had no covert meaning in giving this answer. The words rose to his lips, and he spoke them lightly. Perhaps he could have given a very different one, had he been compelled to speak out the inmost feeling of his heart. Strange, however, was the effect on Henry Ashley. He grasped William's arm with emotion, and pulled his face down to him as he lay.

"What do you say? What do you mean?"

"I mean nothing in particular. Anna is here."

"You shall not evade me," gasped Henry. "I must have it out, now or later. What is it that you mean?"

William stood, almost confounded. Henry was evidently in painful excitement; every vestige of colour had forsaken his sensitive countenance, and his white hands shook as they held William.

"What do you mean?" William whispered. "I said nothing to agitate you thus, that I am aware of. Are we at cross-purposes?"

A spot, bright as carmine, began to flush into the invalid's pale cheeks, and he moved his face so that the light did not fall upon it.

"I'll have it out, I say. What is Anna Lynn to you?"

"Nothing," answered William, a smile parting his lips.

"What is she to you?" reiterated Henry, his tone painfully earnest.

William edged himself on to the sofa, so as to cover Henry from the gaze of any eyes that might be directed to him from the other parts of the room. "I like Anna very much," he said in a clear, low tone; "almost as I might like a sister; but I have no love for her, in the sense you would imply—if I am not mistaking your meaning. And I never shall have."

Henry looked at him wistfully. "On your honour?"

"Henry! was there need to ask it? On my honour, if you will."

"No, no; there was no need: you are always truthful. Bear with me, William! bear with my infirmities."

"My sister Anna Lynn might be, and welcome. My wife never."

Henry did not answer. His face was growing damp with physical pain.

"You have one of your fits of suffering coming on!" breathed William. "Shall I get you anything?"

"Hush! only sit there, to hide me from them: and be still."

William did as he was requested, sitting so as to screen him from Mrs. Ashley and the rest. He held his hands, and the paroxysm, sharp while it lasted, passed away. Henry's very lips had grown white with pain.

"You see what a poor wretch I am!"

"I see that you suffer," was William's compassionate answer.

"From henceforth there is a fresh bond of union between us, for you possess my secret. It is what no one else in the world does. William, that's my object in life."

William did not reply. Perplexity was crowding on his mind, shading his countenance.

"Well!" cried Henry, beginning to recover his equanimity, and with it his sharp retorts. "Why are you looking so blue?"

"Will it be smooth sailing for you, Henry, with Mr. Ashley?"

"Yes, I think it will," was the hasty rejoinder: its very haste, its fractious tone, proving that Henry was by no means so sure of it as he would imply. "I am not as others are: therefore he will let minor considerations yield to my happiness."

William looked uncommonly grave. "Mr. Ashley is not all," he said, arousing from a reverie. "There may be difficulties elsewhere. She must not marry out of their own society. Samuel Lynn is one of its strictest members."

"Rubbish! Samuel Lynn is my father's servant, and I am my father's son. If Samuel should take a strait-laced fit, and hold out, why, I'll turn broadbrim."

"Samuel Lynn is my father's servant!" In that very fact, William saw cause to fear that it might not be such plain sailing with Mr. Ashley as Henry wished to anticipate. He could not help looking the doubts he felt. Henry observed it.

"What's the matter now?" he peevishly asked. "I do think you were born to be the plague of my life! My belief is, you want her for yourself."

"I am only anxious for you, Henry. I wish you could have assured yourself that it would go well, before—before allowing your feelings to be irrevocably bound up in it. A blow, for you, might be hard to bear."

"How could I help my feelings?" retorted Henry. "I did not fix them purposely on Anna Lynn. Before I knew anything about it, they had fixed themselves. Almost before I knew that I cared for her, she was more to me than the sun in the heavens. There has been no help for it at all, I tell you. So don't preach."

"Have you spoken to her?"

Henry shook his head. "The time has not come for it. I must make it right with the master before I can stir a step: and I fear it is not quite ripe for that. Mind you don't talk."

William smiled. "I will mind."

"You'd better. If that Quaker society got a hint of it, there's no knowing what a hullabaloo they might make. They might be for reading Anna a public lecture at Meeting: or get Samuel Lynn to vow he'd not give his consent."

"I should argue in this way, were I you, Henry. With my love so firmly fixed on Anna Lynn——I beg your pardon, Miss Ashley."

William started up. Mary Ashley was standing close to the sofa. Had she caught the sense of the last words?

"Mamma spoke twice, but you were too busily engaged to hear," said Mary. "Henry, James is waiting to wheel your sofa to the tea-table."

Henry rose. Passing his arm through William's, he approached the group. The servant pushed the sofa after them. Standing together were Mary Ashley and Anna Lynn. They presented a great contrast to each other. Mary wore an evening dress of shimmering silk, its low body trimmed with rich white lace; white lace hung from its drooping sleeves: and she had on ornaments of gold. Anna was in grey merino, high in the neck, close at the wrists; not a bit of lace about her, not an ornament; nothing but a plain white linen collar. "Catch me letting her wear those Methodistical things when she shall be mine!" thought Henry. "I'll make a bonfire of the lot."

But the Quaker cap? Ah! it was not there. Anna had continued her habit at home of throwing it off, as formerly. Patience reprimanded in vain. She was not seconded by Samuel Lynn. "We are by ourselves, Patience; it does not much matter," he would say; "the child says she is cooler without it." But had Samuel Lynn known that Anna was in the habit of discarding it on every possible occasion when she was from home, he had been as severe as Patience. At Mr. Ashley's, especially, she would sit, as now, without it, her lovely face made more lovely by its falling curls. Anna did wrong, and she knew it; but she was a wilful girl, and a vain one. That pretty, timid, retiring manner concealed much self-will, much vanity; though in some things she was as easily swayed as a child.

She disobeyed Patience in another matter. Patience would say to her, "Should Mary Ashley be opening her instrument of music, thee will mind not to listen to her songs: thee can go into another room."

"Oh, yes, Patience," she would answer; "I will mind."

But, instead of not listening, Miss Anna would place herself near the piano, and drink in the songs as if her whole heart were in the music. Music had a great effect upon her; and there she would sit entranced, as though she were in some earthly Elysium. She said nothing of this at home; but the deceit was wrong.

They were sitting down to tea, when Herbert Dare came in. The hours for meals were early at Mr. Ashley's: the medical men considered it best for Henry. Herbert could be a gentleman when he chose; good-looking also; quite an addition to a drawing-room. He took his seat between Mary and Anna.

"I say, how is it you are not dining at home this evening?" asked Henry, who somehow did not regard the Dares with any great favour.

"I dined in the middle of the day," was Herbert's reply.

"The condescension! I thought only plebeians did that. James, is there a piece of chalk in the house? I must chalk that up."

"Henry! Henry!" reproved Mrs. Ashley.

"Oh, let him talk, Mrs. Ashley," said Herbert, with supreme good humour. "There's nothing he likes so well as a wordy war."

"Nothing in the world," acquiesced Henry. "Especially with Herbert Dare."